When Eric passed, my world went quiet.

Not just quiet in the sense of less noise, but in that deep, heavy way where everything feels like it’s paused. Everything isn’t right and just out of place.

There’s no bark when we get to the walk.
No little paws on the stairs behind me.
Only 2 bedtime biscuit to hand out at the top of the stairs, not 3.
No Eric in his spot on the sofa.

One less food bowl to prepare.

The house feels unbalanced.

Grief in the Little Things

Grief is strange. People expect the big moments to hurt. Birthdays, anniversaries, the first Christmas without them. But what catches you are the little moments.

It’s the firsts of doing something without them, the first time on your local walk, the first time away.

I still leave the bathroom door open out of habit. It was for him, so I could see if he snuck past without me hearing.

I still glance for him at walks, checking back over my shoulder out of habit.

I still have five beds in the house. I know I don’t need them all, but I can’t part with a single one.

His Ovo eggs are still lying around, untouched by the girls. The squeaky duck Dad got him at Christmas that drove us all mad is still sitting there. No one else will touch it.

Even the noisy, annoying things are a comfort now.

The Space He Left

Maisie and Envy are adjusting in their own ways. Maisie still looks for him on walks, often walking close to where he used to be. Envy is quieter. The dynamic is different.

Dad misses him too. They had a special bond from the very start, and I know Dad feels the gap.

And I do too. It feels like there’s a space in my life I can’t fill.

Lorraine said to me, “You’ve lost a piece of yourself.” And she’s right. I have.

The Shape of Grief

Grief for a dog is real. It’s deep. It’s valid. And yet, it can feel hard to talk about.

Some mornings, I still wake expecting him to be there.
I still turn to check for him at the bottom of the stairs.
I still reach for three bedtime biscuits without thinking.

I still catch glimpses of him round the house out the corner of my eye, but he’s not there.

Grief comes in waves. Some days are easier, others stop you in your tracks. It catches you in the small moments, in the habits that haven’t caught up to the reality.

It’s the days when you think it may be getting easier, it can hit you like a bus and take the wind out of you.

Bumping into a local dog walker who casually asked where is Eric, and the tears just come again.

Grieving Out Loud

I wanted to write this blog not just to honour Eric, but because if you’re going through the loss of your own dog, I want you to know you’re not alone.

Grief isn’t linear, it affects us all in our own ways.

The RSPCA has a Pet Bereavement Support service, and there are other places that understand too. But sometimes it helps just to know that someone else has felt this pain and survived it.

If You’re Here Too

If you’re in this stage right now, I see you. I understand the waves of grief. The quiet moments that catch you off guard. The routines you still follow even though they’re gone.

It will hurt. And slowly, it will soften.
You will carry them with you in everything you do.

They say time is a healer, which it is. But it does just take time.

Eric will always be part of me.

My little dog who wasn’t meant to stay, but who left paw prints I’ll carry forever.